The Clockwork Dancer
by SunWillRise2340
Summary: 'For every once upon a time there must be a story to follow, because if a story doesn't, something else will, and it might not be as harmless as a story'...once upon a time there was a story featuring a Persian, a Magician, a Clockwork Dancer, and a Key broken beyond repair.


**A/N **This was going to be a oneshot. It got really long, so I'm posting it in several parts. Phantom of the Opera, Kay-based, Erik/OC. Elements from Daughter of Smoke and Bone, and quotes from The Perks of Being A Wallflower in later parts. Constructive criticism and any comments you have are very welcome. The quote is from Roald Dahl. On with the story!

* * *

**Part I**

_And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it._

* * *

**1850**

**Nijni-Novgorod**

**Russia**

She appeared outside his tent one morning, a girl of no more than twelve years old, sitting cross legged on the ground, tear tracks down her dirty face and a pair of filthy dancing slippers clutched to her scrawny chest. In fact, he almost tripped over her as he pushed aside the black cloth door, swearing roundly as she scrambled backwards on all fours like a frightened insect.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"Zítra Flor," she said, looking up at him with dark blue eyes framed by long thick lashes.

He stared at her for a second. "Go," he snapped. "Go on. Leave. I don't have time for street-children."

An offended look crossed her little face, and she folded her arms petulantly. "I am not a street-child," she said crossly.

Intrigued despite himself at the audacity of this little bag of bones and skin, he asked, "Then what are you?"

She thought for a second, biting her lip. He watched as a drop of crimson blood welled from the cut skin. "I'm a dancer," she said eventually.

"I don't have time for dancers, either, girl," he told her harshly. "Be off with you."

As he swept past, she grabbed the hem of his cloak, and he resisted the urge to pull out his Punjab lasso and end this little nuisance. "I'm not a normal dancer just like you're not a normal magician," she tightened her fist on the material, and he heard it rip a little. "You're a masked magician, and I'm a clockwork dancer."

His visible lip curled. "Don't bother me again," he growled, pulling his cloak free with a rip of the expensive black material.

...

When he returned from his errand, the girl was still sitting there in the entrance to his tent, singing in an off-tune voice that was scratchy with disuse. "I thought I told you to leave," he said menacingly, picking her up by the front of her sackcloth dress so that her legs dangled off the ground.

"I'm not leaving till you hire me," she tossed back her little head, utterly unafraid.

"Why does a twelve-year-old street rat need a job?" he shook her, but she just regarded him with those wide blue eyes.

"I am twelve and a half, not twelve," she told him. "And I am not a street-rat, I am a clockwork dancer. Will you hire me?"

"If only to get rid of you," he muttered, annoyed at her persistence. "Go and buy some bread, then." He handed her two silver coins and she darted off into the ground, her dancing slippers hanging around her neck.

She returned ten minutes later, pushing aside the black cloth tent opening and venturing inside, the bread clutched under one arm. He was sitting on red floor cushions, and the carpet was squishy under her bare, grimy feet.

"I brought you your bread, _Pan,_" she said cheerfully, tossing it to land at his feet.

"Russian is not your first language," he observed as she settled herself down, cross-legged, again, on the floor.

"I am Czech," she told him proudly, and for a moment he fought back laughter at the expression on her face.

"And why are you here?" he asked. Czech was not one of the many languages he had learnt.

"I saw you in Prague, with the tin soldier," she said, reaching out to tear off a corner of the bread and stuff it greedily into her mouth. "Then when the Enchanter said that he didn't want me anymore, I came here, to the fair in Russia with a clockmaker and his son. The old man died and the young one didn't want me anymore, because I wasn't pretty enough to marry. He also didn't want a girl who turned to wood every birthday."

She pushed more bread into her mouth so that her cheeks were bulging. "Then I thought of who would want me, and I thought of the masked magician. I thought he would have use for a clockwork dancer."

"You are interesting," he told the girl, privately thinking that the child must be mad, and she beamed, showing off several missing teeth. "You may sleep here tonight, but tomorrow you must be on your way. Find someone else who will want you."

She lay down on the floor contentedly, and he sat back against the cushions, watching her eyes flutter shut. He stood, and pushed back the curtains. Tonight he would have to perform in the open air.

...

She was gone in the morning when he returned from an errand. Disappeared, vanished into thin air. Good riddance.

But his pleasure was short-lived. By evening, she had returned, this time with the dancing slippers on her feet, and a chipped wooden bowl which she set outside his tent. He watched from behind the curtains as she stretched her legs and her fingers, smoothing out the skirt of that shapeless dress.

And then the crowd was pushing into his tent, and she was obscured from his vision, distracted by the faces hungry for a glimpse of his magic. And then at the end, when they were pressing in on him, demanding, "Take off your mask, magician! Sing for us!" he didn't notice the small figure slipping through the crowd until he began to sing, and then she was there, moving so gracefully from angle to angle, and the crowd was weeping.

The Persian, who came the night before when the child was asleep in his tent, stayed behind. The girl settled herself down onto the carpet like she owned the place, her blue eyes flicking from one man to the other.

"You have come for your answer, I suppose," the magician turned away from the tent opening, lifting his mask back to his face.

"You will be greatly honoured in Persia," the dark-skinned man replied carefully. "Anything you desire will be yours."

The magician glared at the older man, and the girl sat back against the cushions, bored. "No-one in this world can give me what I desire," he snapped. "Not even the Shah of Persia."

The Persian looked terrified for an instant. "But…you will come with me?"

The magician shrugged, elegant and scornful. "Apparently."

"Will I come too, _Pan_?" the girl piped up eagerly, fiddling with something hanging from her neck.

The magician regarded the girl for a few seconds, weighing up the options. If he said no, she'd be likely to follow them. And in any case, she wasn't lying, she was a good dancer and could extend the range of displays he would be able to perform. Dredging up the girl's name from his memory, he said, "If you wish, Zítra."

...

The boat was horribly crowded, people pressed against people until he could take it no longer. In the middle of the night, he calmly woke Zítra and began to unload his horses and possessions, ignoring the shivering girl standing on the riverbank, wrapped in an old cloak of his that she'd taken.

"Where are we going, _Pan_?" she asked sleepily, pushing her grimy hair out of her face.

He didn't reply, concentrating on getting his high-spirited stallion to get off the boat. That was when the dark-skinned Persian appeared at the top of the boarding plank, an alarmed expression crossing his face.

She hugged the cloak more tightly around her skinny body as the two men began to argue, holding the dull gold key around her neck tightly for luck. The magician did not believe her when she told him she was clockwork, but he'd see. Her birthday was only three months off, and then he'd see when he woke up and found that his clockwork dancer had indeed reverted to wood and gears.

He'd be sorry he'd ever doubted her then.

...

They rode for a long time. Days and days, and weeks and weeks, only stopping when the Persian became ill. The magician was angry at the delay, sitting and fuming in his tent, and even Zítra did not dare to approach him, instead sitting outside and stretching her skinny legs above her head, and fiddling with her key.

One the day before they were due to start up again, a man she had seen with the Persian approached her, his dark eyes friendly. "Hello, little one," he said in stumbling Russian.

"Hello," she replied politely, wiping some of the grime off her face with the back of her equally dirty hand.

"I am surprised that the magician does not clean his dancer and clothe her more appropriately," he sat next to her, his long robes swishing in the dust.

"The magician does not like me," she told him matter-of-factly. "He does not like anyone, I do not think."

"My master, Nadir Khan, will provide clothes to you when we reach Persia," the man smiled. "He is a kind and generous man. I am proud to serve him."

She did not reply, instead took to drawing shapes in the dust with the tips of her fingers, swirling shapes that resolved themselves into the friends she left behind. The tin soldier who'd always blushed when he'd seen her. The beautiful china dolls who'd had tea every day and put her hair up in rags so that she would have ringlets like they did and the rag dolls who giggled behind their hands whenever they saw a handsome boy.

But until the Enchanter put her out, all they would be were little girls and boys who came from china and fabric and tin, and would return to it when they were finished, good enough only to sit on shelves and smile painted smiles.

She was special, she was always told. She could always be re-woken using her key, she wouldn't have a limited lifetime. When she found love, she would stay as a girl, a human girl for the rest of her days, and not change back to a clockwork figurine on the thirtieth of March every year.

She counted herself blessed to be the only one the Enchanter deemed worthy enough to have this privilege. She counted herself lucky to have been thrown out before he grew bored of her, and took away her key, sold her to the nearest toy-shop to be played with by rough-handed children until she broke, then discarded on a scrap heap.

Yes, she was very lucky indeed.

...

They entered the harbour city of Astrakhan in the golden sunshine of the late afternoon, pushing through brightly dressed market-goers to reach the docks. A small ship, bobbing on the blue-green waves that broke against the sea wall, waited for them, flying a beautifully dyed flag from the main mast.

The Persian ushered the magician and the girl aboard, up the creaking gangplank and onto the deck, an expression of relief on his careworn face. The magician had taken to disappearing on their overland journey from Kazan, but water could hold him like threats and bribes could not.

The wooden planks swayed alarmingly under their feet as the sailors stood to attention in front of them across the deck. The magician's eyes raked across their burnt faces, settling on the gold thread adorning the jacket of the captain, glinting as it caught the light.

"We are honoured to welcome you aboard, sir," the captain's Russian was strongly accented and shaky; he looked relieved when the magician replied in Persian, the guttural sounds rolling off his tongue with ease.

"Where is my cabin?"

The girl beside him crossed her arms, a frown creasing her dirty forehead. "What are you saying?" she demanded. The magician waved her aside with a command to be quiet.

The captain opened a door to the stern of the boat, revealing a rich room that seemed faded, the velvet hangings patchy and moth-eaten. A boy with gaps in his teeth and limbs that looked too big for him was hurriedly draping a sheet from the ceiling, obscuring a small truckle in the corner, covered by a tattered blanket.

"For the girl," the captain said, and Zítra scowled, understanding the gesture of his callused hand towards her and the sorry-looking little bed.

The magician inclined his head, and the captain's mouth twitched in what could be a smile. "We'll set sail in the next half hour."

...

The last stage of the journey was mercifully easy. The sea was calm and the wind behind the little ship as they crossed the blue of the Caspian Sea.

The girl stood in the prow as they approached land, clouds scudding across the golden sky as they made anchor in what the Persia called Ashraf with a fond smile on his face.

The men went ahead, the Persian dressed in colourful robes and the magician in his usual black, the girl trailing behind them, her dirty dress blending in with the sandy ground. Finally, they reached a beautiful house, set back amongst cypress trees, stained glass sending shards of light across the earth.

A boy stood unsteadily on the front steps leading up to the raised veranda surrounding the house, his dark eyes shining with excitement. "Father!" he called. "Father! You've been away for so long, and I thought you weren't ever going to come back!"

He flung himself down the steps, wrapping thin arms tenaciously around the Persian's neck. The girl watched from a distance, her blue eyes narrowed slightly against the glare of the setting sun. It was curious, watching real people with a father and a mother. Of course, she has never known that unconditional love of a parent and child, only the careless love of a craftsman for his masterpiece.

"Reza, my boy," the Persian said softly. "Come now, we have guests."

The boy's eyes strayed towards her for a second, then looked up wide-eyed at the ominous figure of the magician. "Are you really the greatest magician in the world?" he burst out breathlessly.

"Some have called me that." Zítra felt a twinge of jealousy as she watched the boy take the magician's sleeve, his father's hand steady under his elbow as he led the two men indoors on wobbling legs like a new-born fawn.

"Miss," a servant stepped out of the shadows of the house, dark hairs escaping from her veil. "Would you like to come with me, Miss? I'll draw you a bath and get some clothes for you."

The girl narrowed her eyes in confusion. "I do not speak Persian."

The servant woman spread her hands apologetically, then beckoned for the girl to come into the house.

Zítra thoughtfully regarded the open door behind the servant for a moment, before taking the stairs with an easy grace, and following the woman inside.

...

Later that evening, dressed in yellow crêpe that fluttered around her ankles, her hair, which now clean was a kind of strawberry chestnut waving gently around her thin, angular face, she entered the veranda where the magician and the Persian were conversing in low tones.

Suddenly, the magician stood. "If you would excuse me from supper tonight, I have work to attend to."

He turned, and stopped for a second as he saw the girl, his amber eyes narrowed. "You look better," he told her.

"Maybe because I'm clean," she shot back, folding her arms defiantly as she stared him down.

He snorted, and brushed past her, the black and yellow of their clothes looking for an instant like a wasp, swift and stinging.

The Persian turned to look at her, a sadness lingering in his eyes. "Come, girl, sit," he said, gesturing to the wicker chair that the magician had vacated. She gathered up her skirts, and sat down, keeping her back straight like a lady. The china dolls would have been proud.

"I have not had an opportunity to speak to you on the journey," he said, smile lines crinkling at the corners of his mouth. "You are Zítra, correct?

"Zítra Flor, yes," without thinking, she reached up to fiddle with the key hanging around her neck.

"Welcome to Persia, Zítra Flor."

The air was filled with the sounds of cicadas, humming in the trees as the stars began to shine in a midnight blue sky. "He says that my son is dying," the Persian says abruptly.

"I'm sorry," the girl replied, but the older man's eyes were in the past, reliving memories of happier times spent in the light of a golden sun.

"Reza is the only family I have, my only son. My little boy," the Persian began to weep softly, and Zítra took his hand, running her thumb in circles over the dark skin in an attempt to soothe him.

After a while, the tears dried up, leaving only traces on his cheeks. "Come, supper will be waiting," the Persian rose slowly, dragging the back of his hand across his eyes.

She watched as he walked to the doorway, his figure silhouetted in the light of the lamps inside, tall and straight even with the weight of his grief bearing down upon him.

They stayed around the dinner table, reclining on cushions for a long time, Zítra telling stories about Prague, about her friends and her odyssey across Europe, and the Persian recounting facts of life in the Persian court.

It was late and she was lying in her bed with the moon shining through the window when she realised which day it was.

She tossed and turned all night long, dreading what the daybreak would bring.

...

"Master, _Master_!" the housekeeper stumbled into the main room in a swirl of voluminous black veil and jangling bracelets.

"What is it?" the Persian turned away from the window, irritated.

"The girl, the dancer," the woman waved her hands in the air, making the sign against evil over and over again. "She's wooden and stiff, and I cannot wake her no matter how hard I try! She must be dead, but I have not seen a dead body like hers, no not ever…"

"Hush," the Persian clapped his hands together. "Fetch the magician. Tell him what has happened."

"I heard." the magician appeared in one of the doorways, a white shirt buttoned loosely over black trousers and a cravat hanging carelessly around his neck.

"Let's go, then." the Persian said shortly.

The two men followed the hysterical woman down the many hallways, stopping outside a door standing ajar. The magician pushed past the other two, crossing to the bed hung with crimson drapes.

"Zítra Flor," he said harshly, shaking the prone body clad in a loose white nightdress lying amongst tangled covers.

There was a clunking sound, and the sound of birds taking flight outside the window. The magician swore foully under his breath. "So she was telling the truth, then. Idiot child." He looked up at the two figures standing frozen in the doorway. "Come, Daroga. There is nothing to harm you here."

The Persian approached the bed cautiously, drawing back shocked when the magician lifted a wooden doll into his arms. "Ingenious, really," he murmured, absorbed in looking at the elbow joint. "I should like to meet this Enchanter she talked about."

"What has happened?" he asked fearfully, drawing the sign against evil into the air with his fingertip.

"She is a clockwork doll," the magician pushed back a strand of limp, fake, chestnut hair, touching elegant white fingers to the painted cheek. "She has told me several times before now, but I did not believe her."

"How…how…" a sheen of sweat covered the Persian's forehead as he stared at the magician.

"I do not know how she is both a living breathing girl and a wooden doll. It is a mystery I would like to discover."

"Can you…can you bring her back to life?" the woman was trembling in the doorway, her hands pressed over her heart.

"Easily," the magician said contemptuously. He laid the doll back on the bed, taking a torn velvet ribbon from around its neck. The Persian watched in astonishment as a key dangled from the magician's fingers, glittering in shafts of sunlight streaming through the window.

He ripped the back of the nightgown to reveal a keyhole set into the doll's back, a black shape against the painted ivory of her skin, lined with gold. He inserted the key and twisted several times.

The doll's legs and arms began to jerk, and before their eyes wood became flesh, and Zítra Flor was sitting on the edge of the bed, coughing weakly into her hand and glaring at all of them. "I told you so," she said. "I told you so."


End file.
